


Stuffing? More Like Suffering.

by FredAndGinger, SpinalBaby



Series: Holidays with the Amis [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Baking, Bubblegum Bitch, Chickens, Cooking Problems, Enjolras dances, Everything Happens All At Once, F/M, Guilty Pleasures, Luckily no carbon monoxide poisoning, M/M, Marina and the Diamonds, Marriage Proposal, Multi, Pop music, Quadruple Dog Dare, Thanksgiving, Thanksgiving Dinner, Turkey - Freeform, Wal-Mart, dirty secrets, it's pretty great, you should read this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 08:44:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5284229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FredAndGinger/pseuds/FredAndGinger, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpinalBaby/pseuds/SpinalBaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thanksgiving is neigh and Grantaire told his parents he was bringing his fiance to dinner. The only problem? He hasn't actually asked Enjolras to marry him yet. It's alright though, he has the entirety of the Amis' Thanksgiving lunch to propose. Too bad Enjolras keeps getting distracted with Grantaire tries to propose. </p>
<p>Meanwhile, Joly and Bossuet have a cooking malfunction, Musichetta battles off middle aged white women at Wal-Mart, Joly has almost has a stroke about his clean, white carpet, Marius dares Bahorel to do a thing, Azelma really needs to talk to her sister, and Enjolras is trying to keep his guilty pleasure a secret. Hilarity and holiday fun ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stuffing? More Like Suffering.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Thanksgiving everyone! A nice, clean fanfiction to read while avoiding talking to your family.   
> \- <3 SpinalBaby & FredAndGinger

“Hey Enj, I-” Grantaire said, trying to stop his boyfriend as he hurried off after the Amis meeting. 

“Not now, R. I really have to go, you’re okay getting a ride with Joly, right?” Enjolras asked, not looking up from his bag as he stuffed in papers and tried to find his keys. 

“I-yeah. But Enj, I wanted to-” 

“Finally!” Enjolras said, having located the keys. He turned and pecked Grantaire on the cheek, “Love you, babe. Gotta go. I won’t be home till late.” 

“Enjolras…” Grantaire sighed as his boyfriend rushed away. Things were not going according to plan. 

Tomorrow was Thanksgiving and, after a gathering with the Amis, Grantaire and Enjolras were supposed to be meeting Grantaire’s family for the first time as a couple. In a fit of panic, Grantaire had only referred to Enjolras as his “fiance” not his “boyfriend”. His parents had been upset that he didn’t tell them he was dating someone, but that he should “bring her over for Thanksgiving”. 

The problem was that Grantaire hadn’t actually proposed to Enjolras yet. He’d been trying throughout the week, but time after time he was thwarted by other things distracting the blond. For some reason the man was spending a lot of time at home, probably to make up for the fact that they wouldn’t be able to make it to Enjolras’s family’s Thanksgiving, and whenever he did have free time one of the Amis would butt in. 

Grantaire had been planning on proposing for some time now, but not like this. Enjolras had cancelled one fancy dinner and three regular ones, four coffee dates (those actually got interrupted, but still), and every time he came home it was long after any reasonable human should be asleep. Grantaire didn’t want to propose to a sleep deprived Enjolras, for fear that the man would either reject him in his tired state or insist that they go to Vegas immediately to elope. The man was insane when he wasn’t well rested. Which was all the time. 

Thanksgiving was the next day, and Grantaire didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t even ask his best friends. Bahorel was too busy being super cute with Feuilly, Eponine would just tell him “suck his dick”, and Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta were all wrapped up in Thanksgiving planning, as it was being held at their house. 

When Grantaire got home after a surprisingly quiet drive in Joly and Bossuet’s car, he cooked a nice dinner (spaghetti, no one can fuck that up and it seems fancy enough) and set the table, including fancy candles. Eventually he ate his own food and washed the dishes, still leaving Enjolras’s plate and the candles. At 11:00, when the candles had burned to stumps, Grantaire sighed and put away Enjolras’s leftovers, blowing out the candles and going to wait on the couch. 

It was late at night when Enjolras guided a half-asleep Grantaire to bed, thoughts of proposing far from his mind as he snuggled into the bed. Enjolras collapsed next to him, and they were both asleep in seconds. 

… 

After Enjolras left the meeting he went straight to his parent’s house. He had some baking to do and the kitchen he shared with Grantaire wasn’t even close to big enough for the project he had in mind. Enjolras pulled all the ingredients he’d gathered out of the cupboards laying them out strategically across the counter in his mother’s kitchen. Every year the Amis held big gatherings for each major holiday and everyone was assigned different food to bring. After Enjolras got dessert one Christmas and brought the best god damned cupcakes anyone had ever had he’d been charged with desserts ever since. Of course, he simply claimed he knew where to buy all the best sweets. Enjolras not only was somewhat embarrassed of his secret passion of baking, but he also had to keep up the impression that he strongly disapproved of every commercialized holiday, and that he was only participating to please his friends. He couldn’t let them know he secretly adored making tiny reindeer on last years Christmas cookies.

“Sweetie, I’m going out, do you need anything else for your cake?” Enjolras’s mother popped her head into the kitchen, watching as her son put on his apron, preparing to bake.

“Huh? Oh, nope, I think I’m good, but thanks Mom.” Enjolras replied, “How long will you be out?”

“Oh, probably just an hour or so. Don’t burn down the house while I’m gone.” She teased before waving goodbye and disappearing from the house.

Enjolras hooked up his iPod to the set of speakers they had in the kitchen. He swiped through several songs before settling on one by Marina and the Diamonds- Bubblegum Bitch. Okay, so baking wasn’t Enjolras’s only dirty secret- shitty pop music would always hold a dear place in his heart, but he wouldn’t dare let _any_ soul find that out. Not even his own mother.

Enjolras began to make the mix as he swayed his hips to the opening beat of the song, humming along with the music. The minute the words started he couldn’t help but sing along.

“Got a figure like a pin-up, got a figure like a doll~ Don’t care if you think I’m dumb, I don’t care at all~” He’d nearly forgotten how much he loved singing since he usually refrained from it in front of the Amis. “Candy bear, sweetie pie, I wanna be adored~ I’m the girl you’d die for,” Enjolras was now engulfed into popstar mode, moving to the rhythm with his bowl of batter and whisk. If he made a little bit of a mess swinging the whisk around, oh well, he’d clean it up later. 

“I’ll chew you up and I’ll spit you out, ‘cause that’s what young love is all about~” Enjolras dramatically reached out to his fake audience after he set the bowl back down, before retracting his hand and continuing to sing, “So pull me closer and kiss me hard,” His hands moved down his body as if he was some sort of exotic dancer or sexy girl in a music video, “I’m gonna pop your bubblegum heart!”

“I’m Miss Sugar Pink, liquor, liquor lips~ Hit me with your sweet love, steal me with a kiss~” He picked up his whisk again, having to pour the batter into the cake pan but he didn’t stop moving his hips with the music, “I’m Miss Sugar Pink, liquor, liquor lips~ Hit me with your sweet love, steal me with a-” His little concert ended as he spun around with a dramatic move, seeing his mother, standing in the doorway with her phone out, “MOM!!!” 

His mother laughed her head off at his son’s screech, quickly posting the video to Facebook with the caption, “My son sings like an ANG-el LOL.”

…

Thanksgiving morning in Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta’s house was probably what Grantaire would have described as “the end-times” if he still lived with them. Thankfully, for their security deposit and their sanity, he was living with Enjolras and far away from this hectic mess. 

Joly made sure that his partners were neat most of the time. He was a hypochondriac, not some kind of super neat freak. But this was the first Thanksgiving in their new apartment, a nice apartment in the nice side of town with nice carpet and a still-in-tact security deposit. So maybe lately he’d been a little more into cleaning. Sue him. He didn’t care, he was just amazed that Bossuet hadn’t ruined the white dining room carpet yet. 

Bossuet and Musichetta were trying to help while Joly ran around, cooking and cleaning. Joly ordered Bossuet to focus on his stuffing (the only food he could be trusted to make without lighting the place on fire), and Musichetta tried to help with the cleaning. After a while, Joly and Musichetta were covered in bleach, cleaning the bathroom, and Joly said something he was sure to regret. 

“Bossuet, sweetie, please put the turkey in the oven.” 

“Are you sure?” Bossuet asked. Musichetta looked a little surprised as well. They loved their unlucky fool, but Joly had spent hours soaking the turkey in some sort of concoction to make it taste better and she was amazed he didn’t want to, like, hold its hand while it cooked to make sure it was safe. 

“Yeah. It’s like a foot away from the oven, it’ll be fine.” Joly said, a little absent-mindedly as he scrubbed at a spot on the floor. He was channeling his mother, specifically his mother during the holidays, and he’d remember to hate that fact when everything was _clean_.

Bossuet came back after the deed was done to inform them that he had successfully gotten the bird into the oven. Musichetta let out a sigh of relief, worried that if anything had happened to it Joly would have burst a blood vessel for real this time. 

Crisis averted, she headed into the kitchen to get out the stuff to make her portion of the meal. All she was making was a bunch of those microwave mashed potatoes with like bacon and shit, but they were still in the freezer, and if they were done early she could just pop them back in the microwave right before the guys got there. 

She realized, after getting seven containers of mashed potatoes out of the freezer, that she had forgotten to buy gravy. She paled, thinking of the lines at the stores. It was Thanksgiving. This was going to be hell. Did she really need gravy? Was that an essential? 

“Hey, babe?” She called, directed at either of her boys, “Do we need gravy? For sure?” 

“Well that one time, Marius dared Feuilly to drink the gravy boat. That was pretty great.” Bossuet said, popping his shiny head around the corner. 

“Aw fuck, that is a worthy cause.” Musichetta muttered, “I’m going to Wal-Mart! Pray that I return before the party!” 

“Wait, the party’s in three hours, you should be fine on time. You’re just getting gravy.” Bossuet said, frowing. She laughed, the poor boy. He didn’t understand. She would be lucky to escape with her life. 

Musichetta was gone for about half an hour and Joly was ever so carefully making up the bed that the three of them shared, when the fire alarm started beeping. 

“Oh fuck you!” Bossuet cursed at the thing, opening a window when he got to the kitchen and saw no smoke. 

“BEEEEP.” The fire alarm replied. 

Bossuet looked closer. The little light that should indicate that the house was on fire wasn’t flashing, but the other light was. Carbon monoxide? Why? 

Bossuet looked at the oven. Oh no. He slowly, carefully, opened the door. 

The stench of melted plastic filled the kitchen, making Bossuet cough and open another window. He put on an oven mitt and braved the cancerous cloud to retrieve the turkey, dumping it on the counter and looking at it. It looked fine? 

“What the fuck?” Bossuet asked. Joly came around, trying to see what was taking Bossuet so long to stop the fire alarm. When he saw his turkey he gasped. 

“What happened?” He asked, rushing over as if he was going to pick up the dead bird and clutch it to his chest. 

“I don’t know! I just put it in the oven, I swear I didn’t do it!” Bossuet said, picking up a fan Feuilly had given them and waving it, trying to clear out the plastic smell. 

Joly stared for a minute and then, in a soft voice, said “...No.” 

“No?” Bossuet stopped fanning to look at his boyfriend. 

“No. No, I forgot!” 

“What did you forget?” 

“There’s this little bag.” Joly said, covering his face with his hands, “It’s plastic. And it’s filled with the turkey’s gizzard and lungs or something. I usually throw it away but I forgot.” 

“Oh…” Bossuet said, secretly happy that it wasn’t his fault for once. 

“What are we going to do? The guys are coming over in two hours! And we don’t have a turkey!” Joly was freaking out and Bossuet was about to freak out by association. He wished Musichetta was here… 

“Wait! I’ve got it!” Bossuet said, grabbing his phone and calling their girlfriend. Joly looked over, through his fingers, curiously. 

Musichetta picked up on the fourth ring. 

“Hey hon, what’s up?” She asked. There was something akin to a riot going on in the background. 

“Joly ruined the turkey,” Bossuet said cheerfully, “The deli’s open right? Buy all their chickens.” 

“Lesgles.” Musichetta said, using her serious voice and his serious name to convey the absolute serious-ness of this situation. “The deli is a war zone.” 

“Psh, war zone?” Bossuet scoffed, “It’s a bunch of white moms who fucked up, struggling with pending divorces, trying to use this Thanksgiving to pull their families together. You can kick all their asses.” 

“They’re scrappy when they’re cornered. I almost lost an eye for the gravy and it’s generic.” Musichetta complained. 

“Ram them with your cart!” Bossuet said. Musichetta groaned. She promised to try and hung up. 

Bossuet then picked up the turkey and took the whole pan out to the garage, throwing it away before it poisoned their friends. 

… 

“Grantaire… Grantaire…” Grantaire awoke to his shoulder being lightly shaken by his boyfriend who was leaning over him.

“Hm?” He rubbed his eyes, yawning loudly. The light… was so bright… Every morning like this he swore the blinding light that reflected off of his boyfriend’s hair made him look like an angel.

“Grantaire! We have to get going, Thanksgiving, remember?” He asked his sleepy boyfriend. 

When Grantaire reached somewhere around eighty percent consciousness he snapped to, opening his eyes all the way, “Shit, already?” He saw that Enjolras was already completely dressed, wearing nice charcoal grey dress slacks and a dark red button up shirt, his hair neatly pulled into a ponytail. 

“Yes already! Up!” He practically dragged Grantaire out of bed himself. “What are you wearing?” Enjolras asked as he moved to the closet to get Grantaire’s clothing and give him a head start.

“I dunno… a t-shirt not covered in paint. Whatever you want.” He shrugged, stretching about to disappear into the bathroom to comb through his messy mane of hair and brush his teeth.

“A t-shirt? Grantaire, we’re going to your parents house after this remember, you can’t just wear a t-shirt and jeans.” Enjolras looked baffled.

Grantaire chuckled a little, god, Enjolras was adorable when he got all worked up about the little details, “Okay, okay, uhm, how about my nice khaki colored pants and my green flannel- the one for special occasions.” 

Enjolras sighed in frustration, digging through Grantaire’s side of the closet to find the correct articles of clothing. Once Grantaire was all dressed and ready to go Enjolras grabbed the large white paper bakery box on the kitchen counter, presumably filled with whatever dessert he’d picked out this year, and rushed out the door, “Don’t forget to grab the wine!”

The car ride over was nerve wracking for Grantaire the moment he realized he still hadn’t proposed. He’d thought about doing it in the car, but he didn’t want to make Enjolras crash. That’d be a bad way to start off an engagement. 

“Hey, babe?” Grantaire asked, gazing out the window. 

“What is it?” Enjolras asked, focused on the road.

“When we get to Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta’s can I pull you aside for a minute?”

“Sure. Whatever you want ‘Taire.” Enjolras sounded sincere, but Grantaire knew his mind was elsewhere and he’d probably forget by the time they arrived.

…

Grantaire and Enjolras arrived at the apartment a little late, making them the last of their friends to show up. The table was crowded, but there were still two chairs open for them. Enjolras had barely shrugged off his coat when he got into a conversation with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, who were sharing (well, more like Courfeyrac was hogging) a bench. 

Grantaire sighed and decided to let Enjolras chill with his besties before he pulled him off to the bathroom or something for the worst proposal ever. He fingered the ring box in his pocket. It wasn’t too late to tell his family he died in a car wreck and never speak to them again. 

He was pulled out of these thoughts by Joly almost having an aneurysm over the fact that he brought red wine. To their white living room. This was going to be a long dinner. 

… 

Marius was sitting with Cosette on his lap. He had made his own little tradition, one that his friends were slowly catching onto. He dared Feuilly and Bahorel to do something dumb every year. Now that they were engaged it was even better. 

Feuilly went to the bathroom after forcing Bahorel to hold his drink. 

“Why can’t you put it on the table, you ginger shit?” Bahorel asked as his fiance walked away. Feuilly merely flipped him off. 

“Hey.” Marius said, beckoning the larger man over, “Bahorel.” 

“Yeah, what’s up? Need me to lift this off of you?” Bahorel asked, pointing at Cosette. She pouted, but he winked at her to show he meant no offense. 

“No. No, my man. I have a challenge for you.” Marius said, glancing over to be sure Joly wasn’t listening in. He didn’t want his dare to be stonewalled before it started. 

“A challenge?” Bahorel asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“A challenge.” Marius confirmed. 

He was about to go on, when Musichetta carried out a large platter and set it on the table. It was obviously the turkey, one of those comically large platters with a metal lid. She cleared her throat and very grandly, in one sweeping motion, took the top off the platter. 

Everyone stared at five small rotisserie chickens, still in their Wal-Mart packaging, on the platter. 

“What?” Jehan eventually asked, looking up at her in confusion. 

“Joly fucked up the turkey and I had a cage match against a fifty year old woman in pearls named Carol for these chickens. I’m a hero.” Musichetta said. 

“All hail.” Eponine said with a laugh. 

Marius reformulated his plan. 

“So what’s the challenge?” Bahorel asked. 

“You.” Marius said, grinning, “Are going to hit Feuilly in the face. With an entire chicken.” 

“What?” 

“I dare you.” Marius said. 

“Ooo.” Cosette said, covering her mouth dramatically.

“No way. Not for just a dare.” 

“I double dog dare you.” 

“Oooo.”

“Nope.” 

“Triple dog dare you!” 

“Ooooo.” 

“It pains me. But no.” 

“I quadruple dog dare you,” Marius began, holding his hand up to stop Bahorel and his wife from interrupting, “And if you don’t, you’re a pussy.” 

Cosette gasped for effect. Marius really loved her at times like these. 

“Oh man.” Bahorel said, “Those are serious words. I can’t not rise to the challenge.” 

“Shake on it.” Marius said, offering his hand. Bahorel hesitated, then took it. They separated just in time for Feuilly to get out of the bathroom. 

Marius extracted himself from Cosette and walked over to Courfeyrac. 

“I need a favor.” Marius said, grinning, “And you’ll like it.” 

“What’s the favor?” Courfeyrac asked, leaning closer to Marius and shoving Combeferre even further off the bench. 

“When Bahorel gives you a signal, you need to film. I’m going to be at my house and Valjean’s, but it’s going to be grand. Believe me.” Marius promised, “You’ll want it on camera.” 

“You’ve got yourself a deal!” Courfeyrac said, “Shouldn’t you be headed out?” 

Marius glanced at the time, let out a girlish squeak, and rushed to collect Cosette and his coat, leaving the rest of the Amis. 

“Finally.” Combeferre said, getting up (and causing Courfeyrac to fall over) and sitting in Marius’s unoccupied chair. Courfeyrac pouted. 

…

Halfway through their Thanksgiving lunch, things were kind of going to hell. 

Joly had saved three wine glasses from falling on the carpet so far. He was going to get R back for this, he swore. 

Eponine had been Facetiming Gavroche and Azelma. Azelma wanted to tell her something, but the call kept getting interrupted by either Gavroche or one of Eponine’s friends. Eponine needed to stay to see Bahorel hit Feuilly with a chicken, otherwise she’d have gone to the bathroom to take the call. She did keep glaring at Grantaire and mouthing “tell him.” 

Grantaire had tried to pull Enjolras aside several times, but the blond was distracted trying to get his mom to figure out how to take something down off Facebook (Grantaire would wonder about that later, when he wasn’t trying to propose) and having Combeferre across from Enjolras didn’t help, it just meant the man was even more distracted, trying to keep them both from finding out what was going on with the Facebook thing. 

Grantaire was getting really agitated. Enjolras didn’t even seem to go to the bathroom for fuck’s sake. Not to mention Grantaire was afraid Enjolras would say no, but he couldn’t dwell on that, he needed to do this and he only had like forty-five minutes until they had to leave for Grantaire’s parents’ house. He needed to do this now. 

Courfeyrac sighed. Without Combeferre he was a little bored. Everyone was still eating and talking (Bahorel was guarding one of the chickens, but Courfeyrac thought that Musichetta thought he was just proud of her fighting skills and preserving a trophy) so he decided to check Facebook. 

Ever since Enjolras’s mom got a Facebook, Courfeyrac had had her favorited. She didn’t post much, the usual rich wine mom stuff, but this time… He looked at the video for a fraction of a second, before deciding that he absolutely needed to see it. He beckoned Musichetta over, freeing Eponine to talk to her sister.

Suddenly, Courfeyrac remembered his vow to video tape. He looked to Jehan. 

“Jehan. Baby. Sweetie. Darling.” 

“Courf, we broke up like three years ago.” 

“I need a favor.”

“What is it?” 

“When Bahorel gives you a signal, start filming.” Courfeyrac said. Jehan took out his phone. 

“What’s he going to do?” 

“I have no idea.” Courfeyrac smiled, “It’s beautiful.”

Jehan nodded and got up. He backed up into the adjoining living room, crawling up onto the back of the sofa to sit. There he had a clear shot of the entire table. He wasn’t going to let himself miss any of whatever Bahorel was going to do. 

Bahorel clapped three times, causing Feuilly to look at him questioningly as he picked up an entire chicken. 

The first few chords to “Bubblegum Bitch” started playing. 

“Enjolras…” Grantaire said, about to ask in front of everyone, when his boyfriend lunged over at Courfeyrac to try to stop the inevitable. 

“Not now R!” 

Bossuet tried to lean over to see the video, tipping his wine glass in the process. 

“Okay.” Azelma said on Facetime to Eponine, “Ponine…” 

Enjolras on the video was belting out the song and Courfeyrac and Musichetta were giggling loudly.

“No!” Joly yelled, diving for Bossuet’s wine glass. 

“Enj-”

Bahorel hit Feuilly. In the face. With the chicken. 

“Not now, R!” Enjolras repeated. 

Chicken was flying everywhere. 

“Eponine, I’m pregnant.” Azelma said. 

Wine stained the carpet.

_“MOM”_ Video Enjolras shrieked. 

“You’re _WHAT_?” Eponine yelled. 

“ENJOLRAS, I’M TRYING TO ASK YOU TO MARRY ME.” Grantaire yelled. 

There was dead silence. Bits of chicken fell off of Feuilly’s face. 

“What?” Enjolras asked, looking over at his boyfriend, from where he had frozen struggling on Courfeyrac’s lap for his phone. 

“Uh.” Grantaire said, looking suddenly a million times more nervous than he’d actually been all day. “Well… I just. Will you? Marry me? I… I know it’s a little sudden. And I had this whole speech planned out about how… how I love you more than anything in the world and how you make me believe in stuff. You make me believe that there’s good in this world and… I- I honestly don’t ever want to wake up and not be with you. So will you marry me?” 

While Grantaire was talking, Enjolras had gotten up off of Courfeyrac and was standing in front of the other man, who pulled a ring box out of his coat at the end of his stuttered speech. 

“Yes…. Yes!” Enjolras said, throwing his arms around Grantaire. 

Bahorel let out a wolf whistle and Feuilly punched him in the arm while the other Amis cheered. They all started cat calling when Enjolras leaned in and kissed Grantaire. He generally wasn’t one for PDA, but this was a good exeption. 

Jehan stopped filming. 

“Courf!” He yelled, drawing all of their attention, “I got it on camera!” 

… 

Grantaire and Enjolras had to leave soon after that, much to Joly and Eponine’s dismay. Joly wanted someone to glare at about the wine stain and Eponine wanted someone to bitch to about being old and her sister being an adult _with a child on the way_ while she was all alone and how unfair life was. 

While Enjolras drove them to Grantaire’s Thanksgiving, Grantaire explained to him why there was a time crunch on getting engaged, and Enjolras was so happy he didn’t even care that his fiance (fiance!) had been an idiot. 

… 

Later that night, Marius and Cosette came back, exhausted from all the holiday cheer. 

“Did you get the video?” Marius asked Courfeyrac. 

“No.” Courfeyrac said, and Marius was about to complain, but Jehan lifted his phone. 

“I did! And it is the single most beautiful thing on this planet.” 

“I’m so ready for this.” Marius said, pulling up a chair and holding the phone. 

Three minutes later, when the video was over, he looked up at all his friends. Words failed him.

“What in God’s name happened?” Cosette asked, speaking for her newly mute husband. 

“Our friend group is just a little bit fucked up, honey.” Musichetta said, grinning. 

… 

Even later, Enjolras and Grantaire came back. Everyone was a little tipsy by then, Grantaire included as his family was full of raging alcoholics and Enjolras was the designated driver. 

“Did you see the video?” He asked, and Cosette nodded eagerly. She wanted to talk to him about weddings, one of her many passions, but she restrained herself knowing that it would stress Enjolras out. Tomorrow she would assault them with questions. 

After a few more drinks, Courfeyrac gasped. 

“We haven’t said what we were thankful for!” He said, sloshing his wine a little. Joly was now past caring. 

“So we have to?” Enjolras groaned. They did this act every year. Courfeyrac would insist and Enjolras would complain and it would happen anyways. 

“Yes! It’s tradition! Ever since we were in the dining hall in the dorms, eating turkey ramen and candy corn, we have always said what we’re thankful for!” Courfeyrac insisted. 

“And those little cupcakes Enjolras had.” Bahorel added. “Those were great.” 

“And the cupcakes. Wait. you make all the baked goods… how did you make those?” Courfeyrac asked, looking suspicious. 

“Combeferre helped me make an oven out of a hot pot and tin foil.” Enjolras said, shrugging. Courfeyrac gasped dramatically. 

“Ferre, you didn’t tell me?” He asked, scandalized. “How dare you!” 

“He bribed me with chocolate chip cookies.” Combeferre said, not sounding sorry at all. 

“Anyways.” Feuilly said, “Thankfulness. I’m thankful that Grantaire interrupted me killing this meathead for hitting me in the head with meat.” 

“I’m thankful it’s on camera.” Bahorel countered, earning a punch to the arm. 

“I’m thankful that I didn’t get killed by a white mom named Susan.” Musichetta said. 

“I’m thankful I didn’t ruin the turkey.” Bossuet said, grinning at his boyfriend, who frowned back. 

“I’m grateful you’re all leaving eventually so I can clean and cry over my security deposit. Like an adult.” Joly said. 

“I’m thankful I beat teenage pregnancy.” Eponine said, earning a couple laughs. 

“I’m thankful Javert didn’t kill me. The man is scary as hell.” Marius said, shivering at the thought. Cosette giggled. 

“I’m thankful you have the least police record out of everyone at this table.” She said, making the other Amis laugh. 

“I’m thankful you actually asked me to marry you instead of telling your parents we died in a fiery car wreck.” Enjolras said to Grantaire, as he had brought that up as an option. 

“I’m thankful for you.” Grantaire said, waving around his finger and booping Enjolras on the nose. Bahorel crooned and Eponine pretended to gag with Courfeyrac. 

Enjolras kind of zoned out the others as Grantaire took his hand and kissed it. 

“I’m not lying.” He said as Courfeyrac said he was thankful for Combeferre’s parents hooking up to produce such an excellent human. 

“I’m thankful for you too.” Enjolras said, blushing because he felt like such a dork. Combeferre was saying that he was thankful for not having to work on holidays. Courfeyrac was saying something that sounded offended, but neither of them were really paying attention.

“You’re a dork. I’m a dork. Marius is rubbing off on us.” Grantaire said, smiling despite himself. 

Jehan was saying that he was thankful he got such an epic, action and romance packed moment on film, which reminded everyone that the video existed. Everyone wanted to watch it again, and they all clamored around Jehan to look at the small screen. 

Grantaire kind of wanted to see it again, but he knew it would be all over Facebook by the next morning, so he could wait. Besides, Enjolras was here, holding his hand and watching their friends elbow each other for a better view in amusement. He could get used to this.


End file.
